


I Know the Way it Ends Before it's Even Begun

by Halfpromise



Series: The Hinterland Doctrine [4]
Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 05:56:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19387894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halfpromise/pseuds/Halfpromise
Summary: A Hinterland Doctrine/Those Who Stand For Nothing Fall For Nothing oneshot gift fic. To save you time and inevitable disappointment, this will make no sense unless you've read and like TWSFNFFA. Otherwise it's Those x Las Vegas, get yourself margarita.





	I Know the Way it Ends Before it's Even Begun

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was promised to a few people years ago, and is dedicated particularly to Monica and Dana. Really thank you to the whole crew who know who they are. Also many thanks to Hannah for being the beta with the worst job in the world in betaing for me, but does a fantastic job regardless. Light's Playboy reflection is all due to Hannah, by the way. Please praise her. ❤️
> 
> Ok so even though this concept is unholy and I could only do it by making it ridiculous, this is my Thosey Pride Month offering. It'd fit into Those canonically at some point in the 2nd arc, but I'll leave it to you to decide where. This is only if you're not bothered about chronological accuracy in terms of irl world events mentioned in Those. Personally, I clearly don't care about dates and times, so just slam it in somewhere before the Chapter 'Lies'. Sorry that the first scene has no breaks. I hope you enjoy this anyway, and many thanks.
> 
> Notes: I kind of wrote this around a playlist which I'll have a link to on halfpromise on tumblr, if you're interested in weird playlists. Disclaimer: I had family in California, I love Disneyland, I love practically everything these two bastards rip the piss out of apart from Trump. The hotel isn't a real place, a lot of things are probably incorrect, I'm not a lawyer, a Prime Minister, or a till register. It's a story. I hope the 'it's a small world after all' ride hasn't changed much though, because it did feel like it took at least 12 hours when I went on it.
> 
> EDIT: I forgot to add before that this includes references to drug use and other possibly triggering stuff, but I take it that if you're reading this at all then you've read Those and this will be no surprise to you.

* * *

**I Know the Way it Ends Before it's Even Begun**

I kind of wake up but not really, and automatically reach for my phone to see what time it is. I don't even remember what my name is yet, but I always check my phone. It's not on the bedside table where I always put it to charge. So that's strange.

One of my eyes is stuck shut but the other one lets me see enough to know that I don't recognise the room I'm in. After two strange events in a row, I rub my glued eye open so I can see in a slightly higher definition. No phone. Weird room with absolutely appalling decor; garish wallpaper, tropical print bedsheets, and macramé shit everywhere. No taste whatsoever, like the decorator sought out the most horrific things possible. And there's a naked man next to me. Oh no, it's ok, it's L.

My hand sticks to the sheets, so I just presume it's something disgusting because L obviously slept here and he's usually the cause of disgusting mystery fluids. When I pull my hand out from under the sheets, I realise that there's a brightly-red growth on my finger. My head is exploding, so it might be some headache aura that's very specific to my finger. It might be the remnants of a highly imaginative acid trip, if I'd taken acid, which I haven't, but I've seen stranger things with or without psychedelic assistance. I've also heard about Morgellon's disease. It might be that, but I'll just deal with it later because I'm very hungover and practically a newborn in terms of cognitive ability. But then I wonder if it's a compound fracture or a tumour, so sit up to inspect it properly.

It's not a skin disease or a tumour. It's a Haribo gummy ring.

"L," I say, shoving his beached whale of a body next to me. He groans and curls away from me, so I start smacking his shoulder until he turns around, barely keeping his eyes open for longer than a second at a time.

"What? Oh. Hello," he smiles stupidly when he sees me, because he's stupid.

"Where are we and what's this?" I ask him, holding my gummy finger in front of his face.

"I don't know and it's your hand, Light. You're stoned. Don't worry about it."

"No, THIS!" I waggle my finger in front of his face until he holds it steady to blearily inspect the gummy ring.

"That's nice," he says.

"No it isn't. You haven't got one. Why do I have to have one?"

"You must be special. Go back to sleep," he tells me and rolls over again, so I lean back in bed to take in his stupid wisdom. There's a mirror on the ceiling above the bed. That's weird. It should be on the wall shouldn't it? How could they get that so wrong? But America always fucks things up.

I try straightening my hair in the overhead mirror but only manage to make it worse. Stretching my hand overhead to look at my budget ring, I search for an accompanying memory to pair it with, but... Oh fuck. I used to have a real wedding ring on that finger!

"Do you know where my actual ring is?" I ask L through the ceiling mirror because it's easier than turning my head.

"I think you put it in a slot machine."

"What?!" I whip around so fast I think my head spun off.

"Yeah. You don't remember that? It was really funny and that's unusual for you, so I remember it."

"Last night?"

"Last night, last… I don't know, what day is it?"

"I don't know either, hold on. Oh yeah, my phone's missing. Where's my phone?

"What do you think I am, a fucking detective with all the answers? I have no idea, buy a new one. Just go back to sleep or at least let me sleep."

Information is feeding back into my brain painfully slowly, and each snippet brings only horror. I'm in California. I remember that much. I came here on a short visit to open a new ride in Disneyland which was a result of a collaboration with Studio Ghibli, and therefore of economic interest to me. They paid for me to come here because I'm unusually attractive, especially for a Prime Minister of any country. Fuck Trudeau and his 400k restaurant in the sky, otherwise known as the food and booze bill on his government jet. It's all about Yagami now. I'm a living, breathing anime character all the way from Totoroland and people are stunned that I can speak English so well. That's what you get for fucking an overeducated Englishman, unfortunately, but I didn't tell them that. Maybe I'm dubbed. I've often felt that I am.

Since I'm always open to taking advantage of situations, I brought L along instead of Kiyomi and Kira because why would I want to bring them? Kiyomi wasn't happy about it, even though I told her that it'll be absolute hell in Disneyland. As it was a PR event, I had to bribe L to accompany me, and saved the country millions by offering him sexual favours in part payment. Altruism like that is thankless, since I can't declare my philanthropic bargaining when it involves oral sex. I'm actually taking a bullet in coming here instead of delegating as I would normally, but Kiyomi doesn't understand that. If I remember to, I might take something American back for them. They'll be thankful that I didn't inflict Disneyland upon them once they see how inferior the merchandise is. This hotel room with terrible decor is a case in point. It's so bad I don't think I would have set foot in here if I was conscious. All rooms are apparently fit for princesses, or princes in my case, but this must be a room for a Disney princess who's fallen on hard times.

For some reason I've found this trip and all the subterfuge involved more depressing and draining than usual, maybe because I'd hoped to stay in a room adjoining L's for the most part and just be wheeled out to cut a ribbon and smile for twenty minutes. I did neither of those things, as it turns out. I was wheeled out for 16 hours a day for two days before the ride was officially opened, and that was done by someone in a Totoro costume. It was miserable experience after miserable experience and I hardly saw L at all.

But where's my phone?

"I can't just _lose_ my phone, it's a security issue. Did I really put my ring in a slot machine or are you doing that joking thing you do? And now I have this?" I ask the universe, holding up my finger for no reason, because L's not looking and I don't need to see it again.

"Mmmmm… ok, one issue at a time, let's have a look," L says, turning over to lie on me. "Are you sure this isn't your wedding ring? It looks awfully familiar."

"Mine was 24 carat gold. Why would I put it in a slot machine? And why is this on my finger?"

"So many questions, so few brain cells left," he tells me; a silky snakey snake thing convincing me that the apples in his tree look nice today.

He's suddenly so close that he glides his nose alongside mine as he speaks like an affectionate cat. Overwhelmed by an emotion of some kind which I'm not prepared for, I push his hair away from his face. This is despite hardly being able to focus well enough to benefit from it because I'm practically astigmatic right now. All I see is a vaguely carved moon of a face with pieces of coal for eyes, making up an above average snowman I'm inordinately fond of. My tenderness in making such a pointless gesture makes him smile, I think, even if I sense it rather than see it. He presses the side of his face against my open palm after kissing it, and I feel his mouth forming words before hearing them.

At least a hundred muscles are used for speech, and I feel his moving now beneath my hand. Unnoticed and unseen, a simple message is fired through neurotransmitters from his cortex to bounce through pathways and brain structures like a pinball to get the ok and instructions by return post. The cortex is a message centre which then sends a message to his brain stem, which in turn sends a message to his trained muscles which live to serve, and he speaks. All this is instantaneous, miraculous, and so mysterious that a brain itself can't fathom exactly how it does what it does. I could almost believe in a divine power greater than I if they created a creature like L for me. But he's as much my creation as I am his, with the same divine spark. I don't think I've felt so content in my entire life, even though I seem to be in the worst room outside of Bang Kwang prison.

"Why don't I have a ring?" he asks. "That's the real question."

"I wondered that as well. But I'm all out of brain cells." I'm positive I wouldn't be here if I had any.

"What a coincidence…" he says, scrutinising my face like he's in a nerd in an art gallery who's trying to tear something beautiful apart in his mind until it's not beautiful anymore. After a few moments of blurry gazing, he leans down to whisper a no doubt shameful admission of guilt in my ear which I knew already. "I gave you the ring."

"Thanks," I whisper back through a lazy smile. "That really surprises me."

"Does it?"

"No. But where's your ring?"

"I must have eaten it."

His grin steadily spreads wide across his face. It's the kind that seems competitive because it's as bright and consuming as a solar flare. But I need to give myself a break from smiling soon or I think my head will crack in half. I never saw him smile until after at least a year of knowing him, and, years later, it's still quite startling to me. He's stone-faced and inscrutable by nature, so when he first smiled like how he is now, it shocked me into silence for a minute. It reminded me of when I first saw my dad without his glasses, because he looked like a totally different person.

Blessed by the benefaction of L's spotlight smile, my fingers run smoothly over his skull like his hair is as sleek as water. I shudder to think what mine must look like to him, but hopefully it could be classed as being as erotically dishevelled.

"Oh, it all makes sense now," I reply. "Well, that part makes sense. You just need to explain everything else to me."

"I was hoping that you'd explain it to _me_."

"I don't remember anything."

"Nothing?" he asks.

Now, should I go for truth or lies or something in between to save myself with vagueness? Politically, vagueness is always the sensible option, and I find it translates well into day to day life. Just a tip for future generations.

"Not since… did we do coke in Cinderella's bathroom?" I ask him, and we both start laughing. My drip fed memories include things I'd rather forget, like being taken on an enforced historical Disney tour that seemed more of a tour of purgatory, and which nearly broke me. I thought the castle was actually just a paper maché facade, but unfortunately not. There's a 'very exclusive' and ghastly Cinderella suite inside with glitter, pumpkins and tat everywhere. They put me in there for an hour until they decided that they had no more use of me and gave me back my freedom. L eventually found me looking suicidal in the bathroom there, said nothing, hugged me, and pulled out some magic dust of his own. I didn't take much convincing.

"That's something to tell Kira when you get back, isn't it?" L says. "Such a magical, heartwarming story."

"The less Kira knows about me the better. How did you get cocaine in Disneyland anyway?"

"Pluto," he tells me flatly.

"You mean the planet?"

"It's a dwarf planet now and I haven't been there for a while, but no. A different Pluto."

"You're silly," I tell him, slapping his hand. Astronomers are always so mean to Pluto and can never make their minds up about what it is. "So there's a bar in Disneyland called Pluto where you can buy cocaine?"

"No. Did you notice the man in the dog costume? He's Pluto. Turns out he's a dealer. Nice guy, very reasonable rates. He never showed his face, so I think he really was Pluto. His girlfriend is Snow White, can you imagine that? That is bestiality, my friend. Have you got a good mental picture in your head now? You're welcome. And, before you ask, he didn't know who I was or that I was part of your useless retinue of flunkies. You're safe."

"Fuck's sake, L, I can't leave you unsupervised for a minute without you doing something stupid. When did you get the opportunity to meet a drug dealing dog?"

"Around the time you told me to not stand too close to you or touch you or talk to you until you called me. I was bored and couldn't take the 'magical' commercialism and all the little goblins running around. He just pushed it into my hands like a mugging in reverse, and I gave him some money. You can't blame me for talking to Pluto when you brushed me off," he says while he draws invisible circles on my chest. It's hard to tell if he's genuinely angry or not. Yeah, I remember that now. I feel vaguely bad about essentially telling him to fuck off, but I won't take full responsibility because of my disclaimer which he unknowingly agreed to when he met me.

"You'd have nothing to contribute and we can't be seen to —"

"Associate in public, yes," he nods. "I know that _and_ how insignificant I am with nothing to contribute, even though I liaised with Ghibli, Disney, and the press for the last six months so it would count as an official international visit and was worth your time. No, I have nothing to contribute. Never a pleasure, always a chore," I think he's angry about it.

"L, you know I appreciate it. I hated every second of it but I appreciate it," I whisper, dropping apologetic kisses softly around his mouth as I speak, because he loves that sort of shit. "I'm glad that you're here, otherwise it would have been completely unbearable."

"Yeah, ok, don't milk it, Light. I'm sure having people think that you were the Emperor of Japan must have been excruciating. You were a bit late in correcting them, by the way."

As a pleasant surprise, I catch sight of us in the mirror on the ceiling when L kisses my neck as an echo of the same barely there way that I kissed him. It's nice to see it as an out-of-body experience and feel it simultaneously. The room is so dimly lit it's like watching a black and white film, but when I hook my leg over his back, I gasp to see how tan my skin is against his blank sheet of paper of a back. So that's what the mirror's there for. Now that I know that, the possibilities seem endless.

"It's not my job to humiliate while representing my country on international visits," I tell him, more interested in seeing my fingernails softly scrape across his shoulder blades and briefly draw angry scratch lines on his skin until they dissipate.

"Well, you're doing a sterling job of that." He laughs against my throat between listless kisses, but I ignore any intended sarcasm. I want him to stay right there forever.

"Thanks."

"Think nothing of it, but I was just answering your question. That's how I met Pluto and discovered the seedy underworld of Disney. I knew there'd be one somewhere, and I found it. So, you don't remember anything since Cinderella's bathroom? You've practically lost an entire day."

"I just remember you mostly," I tell him, still entranced by how, in the mirror, it looks like he fell from a great height and landed on me. And there were no survivors. "Nothing else was worth remembering but you. Nothing ever is."

As soon as I finish saying this, he lifts his face above me, and I notice that the pupils of his eyes are blown. My initial interpretation of this is that it's due to fear or love or a mix of the two. Further down the list of possible causes is brain injury, excessive drug and alcohol use, or just because the room is fucking dark. Those may appear to be more likely reasons, but I prefer fear and love, so that's what it is. His fight or flight reflex kicked in as soon as he saw me at a funeral and now he lives eternally conflicted. If I could feel my knees I'm sure they'd be quite weak, if only because he's been lying on them.

"Oh," he breathes out, looking guiltily happy about it. "Sorry about that,"

"Don't be," I say, but that just makes everything worse. I'm mortified that I'm joining him in acting like how popular culture tells me teenagers act around just about everyone. I never did because I was always surrounded by inferior people, but I'm obviously making up for it now. I want to knock some sense into myself and will do as soon as I get to the shower. Meanwhile, he just gazes at me, looking so enchanted that I wonder whether he does have a brain injury after all.

"You're impossibly good-looking, you know," he says dreamily. "Seriously, quite obnoxiously so. Has anyone ever told you that?" No, I had no idea.

"Once or twice," I reply. "Not in those words, but the sentiment was the same."

"But have _I_ ever told you that?"

"Once or twice."

His breath is warm where it hits, and I think of all those days where he wouldn't even give me the time of day without following it up with a slap. He'd do this to Stephen instead and try to blot me out like ink on a page, but the ink had dried and he was permanently stained by me as I was by him. He'd wish Stephen was me—just another stand-in—and maybe he'll admit that one day. But probably not.

He leans towards my mouth and I remember seeing a clip from a horror film like this once and must subconsciously replicate it by putting my hand around his throat. He's so heavy on me I can't breathe.

"Thanks again for the gelatin jewellery but I better clean it off," I say hurriedly while trying to sit up, but he's still lying on me, holding my finger and turning it from side to side.

"I'll clean it for you," he says, and smiles mischievously. No, I need to shower and shave and so does he, and I really do wonder where my phone is and which hotel this is so I can make a note never to come here again, but now that he's sucking the ring off my finger, it's strangely distracting. Nice grip, sucking action and controlled gag reflex for someone who only woke up about ten minutes ago. _He's_ strangely distracting.

"I have a headache," I tell him.

"Really?" he swallows as his head pops up in front of me again. Gee fucking whiz, as they say in this new regressive MAGA world. "Whereabouts?"

"Here," I say, biting my lip, and point to my forehead, so he swipes my hair to one side to kiss it. Thank you. I feel no better whatsoever but I appreciate it. "Do you have a headache?"

"Yeah," he sighs. Oh dear.

"Where?"

"Here," he tells me, pointing towards his dick under the sheets. "Ooops, sorry. I'm geographically incorrect for this early in the day. Here," he says, tapping his mouth. I stretch up to let my mouth hover over his and watch the glassy reflection of myself in his eyes for those few seconds. There you are.

Of course it's hardly ever as simple as that, and somehow my raging headache is no match for his raging hard-on and probable Starmix overdose. We're starting to fuck around and grapple with each other's hair until I remember my phone and my ring and that I don't have either.

"Hold on a second because this'll take at least half an hour. I'll just call reception and find out where we are and see if they know where my phone is. Maybe they can find my wedding ring. Do you know where the slot machine was?" I ask him, but he just rolls onto his side to laugh to himself and let me get out of the bed. "Ok then. There can't be too many of them in Disneyland."

"I wouldn't think so, no. I really do have a headache down there, by the way. I think it needs your medical expertise."

Oh my God. But I end up breathing out a laugh because he's stupid. And there's a mirror over the bed.

"Give me five minutes," I tell him and navigate my way around all this fucking bamboo furniture to get to the room phone, wherever that is.

I open the retro blind and blind myself, because it's either fucking daylight out there or a nuclear blast. Once my eyes adapt, it's faced with a new horror. Disneyland is either extremely overrated or it's let itself go lately, because this room is even worse than I'd originally thought.

"L, did that giant fucking mouse put you in this room? I'll speak to them. They can't put my Head of PR in a room like this, it's disgusting! They'll be sorry they treated my staff like this, I'll annihilate them, I'll—" I stop only when L gasps loudly, now sitting up in bed and holding some papers. "Is it a bill?" I ask. "We're not paying for this room. Disneyland is. In fact they're going to pay me compensation for putting you in here."

"No, it's not a bill," he says, then flips a stapled page. "Oh. No. My mistake. There's a receipt. Does my debit card end in 4256?"

"I think so, yeah." Should I have admitted knowing that? "What's it for?"

"Do you want to sit down?" he asks, looking at me with a slightly pained smile.

"No. What is it?"

"You still have your cigarettes don't you?"

"What is the receipt for, L?"

"I think you should sit down."

"L, I'll give you a cigarette _and_ head in a minute if you tell me what the receipt's for!"

He pouts for a moment before tilting to one side, wondering whether he should tell me or not, presumably. "Is that a promise?" he asks.

"About the blowjob? Yeah. I'm not going to put it in writing or anything, but I'm on free time until I get back to Japan and I kind of owe you one don't I. What is it?" I'm being blackmailed. Someone's blackmailing me because I'm a little too friendly with my PR man to describe it as a bromance now. And it might come as a shock to some people, but we don't play tennis at all. I've deduced that a blackmailer has sent us a bill because I'm pheno... phenomenom… phenomenally intelligent.

"I'm really sorry, Light, but I think we might have gotten married last night."

"Come again?"

"We got married. Please don't shout or make any loud noises or I think my head might implode."

"Huh?"

"Don't make me say it again."

Heh. I almost believed him for a second. No. Wait. Possibly. No.

"Haaaa! Fucking hell, you got me there, I thought you were serious. That's low, L, you know I'm not at my best at the moment. Oh! And the ring! You must have put a lot of effort into that one, you built it up and everything. I hope you haven't lost my actual ring or Kiyomi will kill me. Well done though. I admire your commitment to that joke even if it's not funny." Fuck my head hurts, I better not do that laughing thing again. "God, I wonder if there's a first aid kit here with some painkillers in it."

"No, Light, really. In a Taco Bell. Don't get upset."

"What? What's a Taco B— What?"

"You read it," he says, tossing the papers on the bed for me to launch myself towards while he puts his head in his hands. What the fuck is this?

' _ **For a chance to win!  
See back of receipt.**_

 _**Taco Bell Cantina** _ _,  
Las Vegas Strip_

 _ **One Wedding Package:**_  
x2 S/M Mr. 'Just Married' T-shirts  
x1 sauce packet garter and bow tie pack  
x1 Cinnabon Delights® cake  
x1 12 pack Taco Party in a box

_X1 Use of Ceremony Room_

_X1 Reception (Unused. Complimentary coupon attached entitling holder to x2 Cheesy Double Decker Tacos)_

_= $600_

_**Additional extras:** _ _  
Elvis celebrant: $199 +$20 shipping fee_

 _Witnesses: x2 staff members $incl._  
_Complimentary Twisted Margarita Freeze: $0_  
x2 Twisted Margarita Freeze: $14.38

 _ **Subtotal**_ _= $833.38_  
Tax = $58.34  
Total = $891.72  
Tip = $5,108.28

 _ **Grand Total:**_ $ _6,000_  
**  
Thank you for your purchase. Have a Happy Enchilada Day!'**

What? Nah. Oh, wait. Nah.

"L, we're not in Las Vegas," I tell him, but he's lying back, staring at the mirrored ceiling. That's not going to help. "I think this must have been left by whoever had the room before us. Or, you know, someone stole your card. I hope they've changed the sheets on this bed since then because I wouldn't be sure if they've been changed since 1972. Have you seen this wallpaper, L?"

But I'm suddenly full of dread. Well, I've felt dread since I made the mistake of waking up; just a sense of unavoidable doom that I can't rationalise yet and don't particularly want to. Whatever it is, I know it's bad and I've done that mistake thing I have a habit of doing since… since I met L, actually. So I'm still trying to focus on these papers for some reason, and find something terrifying at the very back in a plastic protective sheet which explains everything. "Shit."

"What?" he moans, barely audible.

"It's a certificate. With our names on it."

"Yeah," he says sadly, and I'm backing away now, backing the hell out the fucking window if I'm lucky.

"We got married. _We_ got married. We got _married_!"

"Yeah… ok, I need a coffee for this one. I'll try to think about US law and Britney Spears. Loads of idiots get married in Vegas and regret it the next day. We can get an annulment," he nods assuredly but frantically until he grips either side of his head and lies flat and still again like a corpse. "Really simple clear up. I just need a coffee and maybe something fried so I can figure out how we can do it quietly."

"We got MARRIED?"

"Apparently so, but please, my brain is faulty at the moment, Light, stop shouting."

"You regret it?" I ask him. I don't know why but I'm feeling quite insulted.

"Well, yeah? I married a politician. You regret it too, I'm guessing."

"I married a lawyer. Of course I regret it."

"I'm a barrister and an extremely eligible one, I'll have you know. But this makes you a bigamist and me an idiot."

"Ohhhhhh FUCK!" I shout, throwing the certificate on the floor. I forgot about that, SHIT!

"Calm down, I'll sort it out. Just get me a coffee. Ring room service and get me a coffee and something horrible for breakfast. And something for yourself. They might have a grapefruit or nuts and berries or hay or something you'd eat because you hate yourself. Oh, never mind, I'll get it myself," he moans and tries to find the phone while I lie on the bed to look at myself in the mirror above me. I wonder what exactly went wrong with my life to make me do something like this. My reflection doesn't know what the fuck happened.

"I'm a bigamist," I say to myself, because L's on the phone now. I must have forgotten that I was married and had a child and what the fuck would I marry L for anyway?! Apart from the obvious con with no pros, I get ice creams for free, I don't need to buy the whole shitty ice cream truck!

My reflection in the mirror pouts and places his fingers over his mouth coquettishly. "Ooops. Boopoopedoo!" he says. Oh shut up.

"But I didn't even want to marry the first time I did it and now I've married you! Are you sure we did? This could be a joke. We're not even in Las Vegas."

"What are you chunnering on about now?" he groans in English while massaging his forehead. I don't know what the fuck chunnering means in any language so I try to interpret it from his tone. "I'm sorry, could you try to impersonate Richard Burton and repeat that, please?" he says into the phone. "... You don't kn… ugh. Ok have you got Spotify?... Look up Richard Burton, 'Lie still, sleep becalmed'. Yes, I'll wait…"

"I won't!" I shout, making him cringe and glare at me from across the room.

"Actually I can't wait, but look him up sometime and educate yourself…" he says to the phone. "Not right now, no. Just repeat what you said softly. Slowly, softly, quietly, uncomplicated, and as close to the 100 Hz mark as you can get is the key criteria of what I want from you."

"I said we're not even in Las Vegas," I say again for the hundredth time. "I think this is a mistake."

He waves his hand limply at me so I have to wait until he finishes on the phone. The phone is the shape of a hamburger.

"Ok," he sighs. Oh God.

"We're not in Las Vegas, L, we're in California," I tell him but really just comforting myself. Unfortunately it doesn't work. L looks like a doctor who's going to tell me that he's going to have to remove both my kidneys immediately, and he's very sorry about it because there's no donor kidney going spare.

"We're not in Kansas or Disneyland anymore, Dorothy," he tells me sadly. No, you're a liar, I never believe you. But who the shitting fuck is Dorothy?

"Look, I think you should lie down. You told me that we're not in Disneyland and you just called me Dorothy. It's shock but nothing to worry about, because it's obviously a prank…" I shut up and stop walking suddenly when what feels like a lightning bolt shoots through my head. Oh no. "... except we _are_ in FUCKING Las Vegas aren't we, L!?"

"I don't remember," he gulps, backing up until he hits a massive wicker chair and falls into it. I stand completely still and horrified. In some kind of demonic possession I start rattling out words in English.

"Baby I love you come come come into my arms let me know the wonder of all of you?"

"Oh. But I wish you'd put more effort into that, Light. It's a classic sex song and you're doing it a disservice just speaking it like that. Nobody would go anywhere near you, never mind let you know the wonder of all of them. You need to sing it like: Baby, I want you now! Now! Oh now and hold on fast. Could this be the magic at laaa—"

"Shut the fuck up," I snap, and he stops singing immediately. Oh, but you've given yourself away now haven't you, you stupid bastard. "What have you done to me? Why do I know that song, L? I saw an old man playing a piano and singing that song on a stage. Why am I seeing these things in my head, L?"

"We went to a Barry Manilow show," he shrugs like there's nothing wrong with that. "You liked that song?"

"What do you think?" I ask him aggressively. "You've broken my brain and brought me somewhere I shouldn't be. Why are we here, L?"

"I uh… I don't know. I thought we could at least get two days out of the trip once Disney was done with you. And I've never been to Las Vegas before. Casinos, Barry Manilow's been singing non-stop here for about thirty-five years, how could I miss that?" he asks.

"Very easily I would think." The memories that I don't want, flood my brain like an overflowing toilet. I vaguely remember him saying all that to me. Just before he passed me one of the bottles of Jack Daniel's he'd smuggled onto the private boat ride for 'it's a small world after all'. That ride took for fucking ever, I don't remember getting off it, and the song is still stuck in my shitting head along with that Barry Gary Whatever song —get it out, get it out!

"Well, I've had a nice time," L tells me. Oh I'm so glad. "I'll keep the ticket stub to put on the camp pinboard in my office at the firm anyway."

"But Nevada is not California, L, we were not in the general area!" I shout, getting progressively louder.

"Ok, sound level. Down," he demands. "Don't be pedantic. It's a hop and a skip away on a chartered flight." Yes, because _it's a small world aaaaafter all—_ I said get the fuck out!

"Hold on," I say. Let's press pause for a fucking second here. "Where are my security? Do they know where I am?"

"I doubt it. Do they ever know where you are?"

"Ohhhhh!" I double over to scream into my lap. "I can't believe I'm in Las Vegas, I can't believe I married you! Why would I do something so fucking stupid!?" My head must have fallen off while I tore my hair out.

"Well, thanks. The feeling's mutual."

"Come on, L, of course this is a disaster and you need to sort it out right now!" I tell him, but he doesn't answer immediately. "L!?"

When he doesn't reply, I watch him sit on the edge of the bed facing away from me. So, because I'm stupid, I get off the bed to kneel at his feet. He's expressionless while I try to undo upsetting him. This is despite everything bad that's happened to the world—from that meteor hitting earth 50,000 years ago until now—being his fault. He seems upset. I'm upset, but as Prime Minister, I need to show concern for my staff and for all of humanity.

"I just meant —"

"I know, the bigamy. Two years in prison upon conviction, yeah," he nods. Two years? "Not too bad. Japan has respect for the unusual and crazy. It's five years in the US, I think, so... I'll have to check the particulars. They probably won't give a shit anyway. Think of how this affects me though! You're so selfish. If I've learnt anything from law it's that all relationships are doomed to fail and marriage is only useful for the dividing of assets. I never wanted to marry anyone ever, but certainly not a politician. I'm just surprised I haven't done anything drastic yet. I've brought shame to the Lawliet dynasty, thank Christ my father's dead or he'd kill me and die of shame."

"But at least you married a Prime Minister."

"Yeah, don't remind me."

"I didn't know it'd be legal here anyway."

"Oh come on, Light, we're not in fucking Brunei!" he shouts. "Vegas is the love child of Liberace and his candelabra —look out the window for fuck's sake. Of course, it is illegally legal because you're already married, but we got a sauce packet bowtie and a garter and it doesn't get more valid than that. Shouldn't we have been given two ties instead of one tie and a garter, though? I find that offensive. I mean what use is the garter to us unless we need a tourniquet for if we wanted to shoot up heroin after breakfast?"

"You can sort this out, can't you?" I ask him. I don't want to go to prison for two years. This definitely won't be worth it.

"I can't make another tie out of a garter if that's what you mean."

"I mean the paperwork."

"Oh. Of course I can deal with that. I can cover any shit up if I want to, and I _really_ want to cover this shit up." That's mean. But yeah.

"Just a straightforward quick annulment."

"Well, no. I mean I haven't had my coffee yet but the quickest route to annulment is out of the question."

"Why?"

"It depends on consummation and that'd be quite embarrassing." What the fuck?

"Well. We didn't, obviously."

"Obviously, we did," he says, rolling his eyes. "You might not remember it and neither do I, but I know myself too well and we've definitely missed the boat on the non-consummation angle." I'm starting to get some wicked evil flashbacks now but I genuinely don't remember that.

"Ohhh, L, I don't know, I'm feeling kind of numb physically and mentally, but I think I'd know, y'know?"

"I'm not saying that it was any _good_ , Light," he says angrily. "I'm just saying that we probably did. In fact, I'm 100% sure we did."

"Oh God…"

"Ha, I'm only playing with you," he laughs and slaps my arm. "Consummation being a factor doesn't apply in same sex marriages anywhere as far as I know. No Gods approve. Just saying though, we definitely did. And I would have been fantastic. Not sure about you though." You bastard.

"I don't think either of us could have put in a knockout performance, L. You probably just humped a pillow for ten seconds and passed out," I tell him. His mouth falls open in shock. Since he's temporarily stunned, I press under his chin to close his mouth and continue with what's important. "We just have to lie and get a quick annulment. Two friends messing around, had a beer and a bag of gummy rings full of E numbers, big mistake. Distracted by the pretty lights and all the fucking pastel shit. I was infected with temporary homosexuality and you took advantage of that."

"Yeah," he sulks. "I'm constantly distracted by pretty lights of some sort, so that sounds believable."

Besides from marrying my PR man by mistake, how could I explain going to Las Vegas when I've just brought in some fairly restrictive gambling laws in Japan and gave an accompanying speech which was very disapproving? I can't say I went to see Barry Manilow, mostly because I don't know who the fuck he is. L really needs to cover this up. But right now he can't even cover himself up. He's letting everything hang out while he's busy moping and simmering; insulted and angry since I inadvertently wrote off his attempts at sexual prowess as being so forgettable that I probably fell asleep in the middle of it, so I better backtrack. It's not that I particularly want to, it's just that L in a good mood gets shit done, and he's got to annul a marriage like a marriage has never been annulled before, otherwise I'll be taking a limo straight to prison, so...

"Did you order coffee?" I ask him.

"They said it'd be here in two shakes of a lamb's tail, lickety-split. Whatever that means." Sounds like it might take a while because that's complete nonsense. Alright.

"Ah. So, um. Since I'm down here, do you still have a headache?" I ask him.

"Yeah, I have a massive headache now," he tells me, massaging between his eyes, so I knock his knees apart and grab a bottle of water to swig. "In my actual head," he adds moodily. Oh. I might as well sit next to him then.

"If you married me, it'd be understandable that you'd have a headache, of course. Lawliet family pride irrevocably injured," I say, hurt to the core by the ungrateful shit. He should feel honoured like Kiyomi does. Forget about my pride and how I'll end up in prison for two years. I don't know how I'd explain this when I can't even explain it to myself. I wonder what my dad would say? Ha. "This must be the worst thing that's ever happened to you. I can't imagine how you must be feeling." You fucking prick.

"Yes," he nods at the horrendous carpet. "But it seems that I married you anyway," he says, sneaking a nervous smile at me. I feel slightly appeased.

"...I'm flattered," I say, shyly kicking my foot against the ground, but then dust rises out of the shag pile carpet like a puffball, so I stop. "Even though I don't remember it. It's very flattering."

"I kind of remember it."

"Do you? Was it nice?"

"Not really. But I married you."

I've kept a constant eye on him, trying to decipher how he really feels about all this. He smiles at me again after checking that I haven't got a razor poised over my wrist or anything. And, fuck me, I smile back. He takes my hand and kisses the knuckles that have punched him more times than I can remember.

It's a good job that his headache migrated back to his head. Room service arrives soon after that and they sound chirpy, knocking a jaunty rhythm against what sounds like a genuine, solid polystyrene foam door.

"You'll have to answer the door, I can't be seen here," I tell L, jumping up to reach for my boxers on the floor and the only top I can find, which happens to be a 'Mr' T-shirt. No, I don't think so.

"Light. Nobody, and I mean nobody knows or cares who you are here. Answer the door and make the most of normality. Oh look! A radio, how retro!" he says, easily distracted.

But I'm only wearing boxer shorts. He's not making any effort to move and put clothes on though, because he's fiddling with a broken radio now.

I worryingly open the door, half-expecting a hoard of photographers to stick cameras in my face, but a uniformed millennial born about five minutes ago but probably full of bizarre 'opinions' stands in the doorway. He shocks me with his brilliantly blinding smile as soon as he sees me, and my instinct is to slam the door in his face. But I don't. Meanwhile, L's had a Eureka! moment and has fixed the radio. Great.

' _Much wiser since my goodbye to you. I've travelled the world to learn I must return... from Russia with love'_

"God, it's a bit blatant to play this under a Trump administration, don't you think, Light?"

"Please ignore our President and enjoy our famous Nevada hospitality here at the Hotel Shalimar!" Room Service Boy instructs us.

"Good man!" L replies. "Ignoring heads of government is my favourite hobby." That only encourages Room Service Boy.

"Mine too! I'm Adam and I'm your server for your stay. And I hope that you stay. Another guest we had died in the night and I hope the medics didn't disturb you. Squeaky gurney."

"Nope, we didn't hear it at all! Or at least it didn't put a dampener on anything, so to speak. R.I.P. though, may flights of angels speed them to their rest and all that," L says from the bed before remembering that I'm in the room and a sitting duck for his bullshit. "Light, you really need headphones but listen to this bit here…" he says, turning up the volume and pointing to the radio. ' _But Ohhh…_.' Hear that? At exactly 1 minute and four seconds in, did you hear a sound like a chipmunk talking? It's a flaw in the recording and can't be removed. It's forever preserved and hardly anyone notices it. The piano track was recorded at half-speed and when they recorded the master track over it they realised that it hadn't been fully erased. On the final recording it was sped up. It's actually the producer —the great George Martin —saying: 'Sound check... I want... What was that again?' to the pianist. Did you know that? Did you _want_ to know that? I wish I didn't. I bet your life is all the richer for knowing that. You'll get so many gifts like that from me now until I annul everything."

"Great," I groan, and turn back to the room service boy. "Coffee," I tell him.

"Oh, you speak American English! OMG, we have some real talent in the Hotel today don't we?! Look at _you_ , bro! I hope you don't mind me telling you, but you're _so_ fine."

"I'm not feeling too well actually."

"He's telling you that you're good looking," L translates, typing on his phone with one finger. "He talks like Mihael after a Bacardi. I'm fluent in spoken textspeak and gobbledegook. And I don't think you need to hear that more than once a day, so ignore him or you're over your quota."

"Oh," I say, turning back to Room Service Boy. "Well, yes. Thanks for…" stating the obvious? Noticing? "... reminding me."

"I'm not shy in giving out compliments. People usually tip better when I do. My manager said you're from South Korea or somewhere? It must be nice for you to get away from your own crazy despot. The big guy with the rockets? You have one as well, don't you? Everyone does these days."

"You mean North Korea."

"North, South, whatever, welcome to Rack City! Now, here!" he says, indicating towards the trolley in the hallway like it's the wheel of fortune. I thought we were supposed to be in Las Vegas. First Disneyland, then Las Vegas, now Rack City?

L starts singing along with the song while the room service boy drags two connected trolleys in behind him like a fucking charabanc of shite, what is this?

"Hello there and welcome to the honeymoon suite of the Hotel Shalimar! I hope you're enjoying your stay, and if you are, please leave us a 5 star review. If you're not enjoying your stay, just forget about it. Congratulations! We support LGBTQIAPK… all the letters, yep, we support all you guys!" I physically cringe, this is painful. And this is the honeymoon suite? I'd hate to see the normal rooms. Also, I guess being in a honeymoon suite let the cat out the bag. "Please let me know if I can help you gentlemen in any way. _Any_ way. Now, here we have a continental breakfast which includes a croissant, a selection of fruit, brewed coffee and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice."

"I'll have that," I tell him. It sounds fairly benign for America.

"Very continental," he says admiringly. Is it?

"I suddenly knew you'd care again! My running around... is through. I'd fly to you! From Russia with looooooooooooovvvvvvvvve!" L croons in the background, and adequately, I guess, letting his hand draw across the air in front of him as he strings out the last word. His lung capacity is quite astounding sometimes. I know this from experience and occasionally I'm appreciative of it. This is not one of those times.

"Wow, you have a great voice!" our overly friendly room service boy who drops compliments like dandruff tells him while clapping his hands manically. L nods graciously and does a thumbs up without looking up from his phone. "Is he a singer for a show on the Strip?" Adam asks me.

"No, he's just a glorified lawyer," I brush off, then point to the railways carriages of food. "What is this?"

"This is the Shalimar Express: chicken fried lobster served with a 5 oz. barbecue spice-rubbed fillet of beef, chicken croquetas and flatbreads topped with jamón serrano and goat cheese, lobster hash, poached eggs, arugula and pea tendril salad with chive crème fraîche, house-made granola, puréed acai, bananas, blueberries, and Greek yogurt, French fries, crisp lettuce, vine-ripened tomato and sweet onions, crisp corn tortilla, refried beans, queso fresco, with a spicy ranchero and tomatillo salsa, all-American pancakes with strawberries, chocolate chips, banana and blueberry and a selection of compotes, brewed coffee with sugar, would you like cream with that? I brought cream, and a bottle of champagne courtesy of the Hotel Shalimar!"

"Right," I say. "L, did you order all this?"

"Just leave it and charge my card," L shouts over in English, still just staring at his phone. We're swapping to English across the board? As if my head wasn't sore enough. "Light, tip the lad."

"Oh yeah, we're in America," I sigh, then remember that I don't carry money. I never need it. "Tip him with what?"

"Ugh," L groans and reaches for his discarded jacket on the floor, fishes through it and throws me his wallet. "10%."

"Our usual rate is 15%," Room Service Boy tells me, smiling. I bet you'd like 15% but you're not getting it.

"I don't care what your usual is. Tipping is vulgar, you should be ashamed of yourself for accepting them," I say while I look through L's wallet. Receipts, a King of Hearts playing card, a note I left him years about how he'd run out of milk, an ancient photo of The Judge, and finally a wad of dollars of various denominations. And a euro.

While my back is turned, L must decide to stand up naked and walk to the bathroom. I just see his bare arse going through the door when I follow Room Service Boy's eyes, which are on stalks. I hear the shower start and I scratch at my eyebrow, but decide it's best to ignore the nudist camp.

"How much is this?" I ask Room Service Boy, pointing to the Orient Express of food, but it takes him a minute to reply because he's traumatised, obviously.

"$461," he smiles like a man possessed. Fucking hell, I bought two pairs of lightweight cotton and wool-blend twill slim leg trousers for less than that.

"For a continental breakfast?!"

"And the Shalimar Express, comprising of chicken fried lobster served with a 5 oz. barbecue spice-rub —"

"Ok," I interrupt him before we go through all that again. "I'll meet you halfway. Ish. Here's $50."

"Thanks!" he smiles, then leans in to gasp in my face. " _Damn_ , Gina! He's packing a magnum, isn't he!?" he tells me, glancing towards the bathroom doorway. After a moment of complete shock, I pinch a $10 note from his hand.

"My name isn't Gina and now you've got 8.7%. Ish," I tell him, throw the wallet on a bamboo table which looks like it might collapse, and shout through to L. "L, put a towel on or something or you might be assaulted."

"Will I?" he replies excitedly, poking his head around the door, then notices my head tilt towards Room Service Boy behind me. "Oh. Ok," he says to me. "I hope I didn't put you off your lunch," he tells Room Service Boy before he disappears back into the shower.

"Not at all! I was going to have a beef burrito anyway!" Room Service Boy shouts through to him, completely beside himself.

"He's too old for you," I tell him.

"How old are you then?"

"No."

"Really, how old? You're not too old for me!"

"Look, you're aiming high and I respect that, but the man in the bathroom should come with a warning label and I'm something else altogether." A mix of God and Chernobyl springs to mind.

"Ok… you can't blame me for trying even if you are married," he beams, recovering nicely. But ew, yeah. Married. Twice over. I'll have a fucking posse of them soon if I'm not careful. "Congratulations, by the way. I can't imagine why you married him, ha!"

"If you think of a good reason please let me know," I ask him, but he thinks I'm joking.

"Haaa, I'm sure you don't need help with that when there's a _big_ reason staring you right in the face." Is there? Oh. "And he sings!"

"Like a bird," I say sadly. A fucking squawking, mutant parrot, yeah. Glorious.

"So you're sure there's nothing else I can get for you?"

"What time is it?" I ask him.

"It's exactly 2:24 in the afternoon!" he tells me after glancing at his watch and as chirpy as a very chirpy pokemon. Fuck. I woke up and half the day has gone. I don't even think I could blame this on jetlag at this point. "Anything else? I'm completely at your disposal," Room Service Boy adds. Oh, you shouldn't have said that. I love disposing of people.

"No thanks."

"Enough food?" he perseveres. We could live on this food for about three weeks and have clogged arteries by the end of it. I think we'll be ok.

"We're fine now...?" I can't remember his name because it was so unimportant and my head is killing me. I can't really call him Room Service Boy to his face though, can I?

"Adam!" he reminds me, and apparently thrilled to do so.

"Adam."

"I'm a trained massage therapist specialising in lingum massage," he tells me eagerly, breaking off when I presume L reappears behind me. I check his state of dress or undress, and he's wearing a hotel dressing gown now, praise be. Adam looks a little disappointed but carries on regardless: "Well, I saw a video about it online and I think I'd be really good at it."

"Good for you," L says. "Bye."

"Bye," I repeat, stuffing the $10 I held back into his hand as I close the door on poor Adam. "L, why did you order a restaurant's worth of food," I ask as he slides up next to me to look at the mountain of now cold food he's bought.

"I ordered the Shalimar Express because it had pancakes. It was either that or the Elvis Gutbuster, and I didn't really fancy that, considering how he died. Oh, there's healthy stuff on there for you, though. Look at that crispy lettuce he mentioned."

"I can't see any lettuce. Where's the healthy stuff?

"Root around for it. You can't just have a croissant, Light. You have to keep your strength up now, you just married me! Yeah. Oh well," he sighs. "Anyway, have the granola. It's a 'powerhouse start to your day,' apparently," he tells me, reading from the 5 page menu.

"I can't see it."

"On a lower shelf, maybe? It'll be there, you just need to move things around. Will you roll it over here and call room service again?"

"Why?"

"I'm on my honeymoon and I have a whim. Don't argue with me, Husband. I am your husband now and demand respect and complete subservience," he says. I'm too tired to argue and move trolleys around the room simultaneously, so I put a call in and wait for the knock on the door. It's fairly instantaneous. He must have just been hovering outside the door.

"Hi again!" Adam beams when L opens the door. "Can I help you gentlemen? Have you changed your mind about the massage?"

"No. I just wanted to see you and remind you to google Richard Burton," L tells him. "Bye."

"Actually, we need fresh towels," I shout over, having found the granola. "And if you could change the bed sheets that'd be good. And hoover, a bit of dusting. Bleach."

"We don't need all that, Light," L tells me.

"Well, the towels and sheets, definitely," I concede. "We'll go…"

"To the veranda!" L suggests, armed with coffee and pancakes.

"Yes. Take your wallet with you, L." As nice as Adam seems, you can't trust hotel staff anywhere.

I slide open the veranda door to what is actually more of a ledge with a mediocre view. It's pissing it down. We're in a desert and it's pissing it down.

"Well, this is nice," L says, sitting down at a horrible cheap patio table.

"It's raining."

"Yes. Unusual for Las Vegas."

"I've never known it to rain this much in one day! You'll be able to see the flash floods from where you are," Adam tells us like an excited tour guide, so I slide the door shut.

"It's because you're here," I tell L. "You bring rain and make everywhere miserable like Winchester."

"Wow. Never heard that one before. Rain jokes and discussion in regards to me just never gets old does it? It doesn't rain all the time in England."

"When doesn't it rain?"

"For about three days in May, but never on a Bank Holiday," he tells me before hacking at an innocent pancake and stuffing half of it into his mouth.

While he's chewing, I sip my coffee and engage in a ten thousand-yard stare through the pebbledashed side of the hotel which is speckled with bird shit. Over the last twenty minutes or so, I've remembered clips of time out of sequence. Piecing them together now forms something disturbing, in surround sound and in full colour. And I'm very disappointed in myself. But I'll get away with it.

L tries to stab a blueberry with a fork and it scoots off his plate, off the balcony, and onto the head of someone on the sidewalk below. He is a disaster, but it seems that I sabotaged myself willingly and can't in good conscience blame him for as much as I thought. Luckily, my conscience is unconcerned, but as an invited member of Mensa, I should've known better. I must draw on my immense problem-solving skills, knowledge of war tactics, and possibly geometry for this. In strained policy debates, especially concerning fractious international policy, it's prudent to set honeytraps and send spies in to gauge how good the other leader's cards are. Britain is like Canada in that they're ostensibly so polite they'll slip on banana skins and apologise to the banana. You think they're harmless, but if you turn your back, they'll fuck you up the arse and rip your heart out, only leaving you with some teabags or maple syrup to remember them by. This is especially true for L, only he doesn't even leave tea bags. Based on my political knowledge, I want to get some idea of how much L remembers before I give him anything.

He has resorted to scooping up and gingerly balancing blueberries on his fork.

"How are you feeling, L?" I ask him. He's so startled by the question, all the blueberries on his fork fall and scatter before reaching his open mouth.

"I don't think you've ever asked me that before. Are _you_ feeling ok?"

"I was just checking for any signs of physical or mental distress before we talk about what happened. It's been a very stressful day so far. I just want you to feel completely at ease with me," I tell him comfortingly, but time my smile a little too late. "Here, have some of my blueberries and take my spoon."

"Thanks," he says, sounding a little bemused. "I was at ease but I'm not anymore."

"Can I get you some water? What can I do to make you feel more comfortable?"

He ponders the question, then snorts a juddering laugh into his hands that sounds like a steam engine in trouble.

"Apart from that," I sigh.

"Why are you acting so weird?" he asks, now putting blueberries one by one my spoon to build a huge pyramid of them.

"I'm not acting weird!"

"Oh yes, I'm sorry, you always act this way. 'How are you feeling, L, my darling diddly dumpkins honeybun?' Please."

"Ok then, I won't ask you. I don't care anyway," I reply waspishly.

"That's better."

"But…" I start, and struggle to appear sophisticated while eating granola with a teaspoon. "How do you feel about being a married man now?"

"I'm not. I entered into a bigamous marriage so I'm still officially a hot to trot bachelor who's coveted the world over. How do you feel about being a married man?"

"What? You mean Kiyomi? You know how I feel about that. I'm asking you how you're feeling about our... mishap."

"Mishap!" he laughs. "Erm… strangely cheerful about it actually. It was an experience, wasn't it? I saw Barry Manilow in that tupperware skinsuit he's rocking now. He's such a pro, oh my God. My mother liked him, so I always avoided him, but I've exorcised that demon now. He played _One Voice, I Write the Songs,_ and _Could it be Magic?_ too. It couldn't have been much better. I love his ballads, fucking classic. Fuck you, Mother. I've seen him live, beat that. At least, I think he's alive and not an animatron."

"And you married me," I remind him, anticipating a study of his mannerisms. Nada.

"Oh. Yes. And that. Apparently," he replies before he tips the spoon to pour all the damn blueberries into his mouth. God.

"You said that you 'kind of' remembered it."

"Bits and bobs of it, yeah. You?"

Nope, you shifty fucker, nothing from me. I slide open the glass door again quickly to shout through to Adam.

"Excuse me! Any news on my wedding ring?"

"No, sorry!" Adam shouts back. Big surprise.

"You'll never get that back," L tells me through a mouthful of smushed fruit. "It's probably being smelted down as we speak."

"Kiyomi will notice that I'm not wearing it, that's all," I sulk, picking through the granola to check for glass. "The press will notice."

"I'll get one for you. They all look the same. Shhhh," he says, pressing his finger to his lips. "Our secret."

"No offence, L, but you don't have the best track record with jewellery. And you ate the last ring you gave me."

"I was getting rid of evidence."

"Hmm… oh, Adam?" I shout. He pops up smiling in an apron and yellow gloves. "Have you got some painkillers? Strong ones?" I ask, and he scurries around the room until he finds some and hands them to me through the door along with a glass of water because he's handy to have around. Then I notice a black piece of plastic on the floor and grab for it. "My phone!"

"Ah yeah, we were out here. Ha," L heaves out, then looks around in confusion. "Can you hear a song about a unicorn playing somewhere?"

"Yeah, it's the radio."

"Oh good. I thought I was having some kind of gay episode."

"So we were out here and that's how I lost my phone? We didn't, did we? Here?"

"In a coitus interruptus sort of way, I suppose. We couldn't find the light switch or the bed when we got here, but there was some glow from that GIRLS! sign over there," he points out. "So we were drawn here like moths. It's a wonder we didn't fall off and kill ourselves," he smiles, but hides it by drinking a massive bowl of coffee. Example of knowledge. He knows more than he wants to admit.

I spend a few seconds looking around the balcony trying to work out the logistics for doing anything on here, but it just seems like a hazardous place to be under any circumstances. Nevermind. I kind of remember being cold so that must have been it.

"Well, it's dead but at least I found it," I say, chucking the phone on the table. The hollow sound of it hitting the faux chrome patio set makes me try sounding suddenly sombre to draw him out. "I wish I could remember it," I say softly while I pop some Tylenol, whatever that is.

"What, marrying me? I'm sure that it was terribly memorable," L says. "Eat your lettuce."

"No I'm having the granola. It's just... I should remember it, shouldn't I?"

"You really don't want to. Besides, we could use inebriation as a get-out card. I must have been paralytic." I frown at that but continue anyway.

"What's Taco Bell Cantina? That sounds quite classy."

"Light we got a garter and stole a bouquet made of sauce sachets, it wasn't classy."

"So what happened?"

"I wanted Elvis so I sent for the King," he tells me proudly. "If you're going to do Las Vegas then do it properly, yeah? What we got was a 700lb man in a massive wig and black leather. You know, the '68 Comeback Special Elvis? Of course you don't. Anyway, that's ruined for me now. So we were married by the Burger King and had a slushie thing. That was it. That was the highlight of our life together. Now just irritability and a murder suicide lies before us."

"What's a slushie thing?" 

"Oh you loved it, you had it all the way through. Sucking away on it like a calf on his mother's tit."

I unexpectedly burst out laughing from what is actually an incredibly accurate description. It takes me a while to calm down because every time I look at L I start laughing again, but I catch sight of him just as his smile slowly falls. He suddenly appears spellbound by me and regretful for it. He must have been reminded of how he doesn't deserve me, I guess. It's worrying to think that I probably look at him in the same way sometimes. As much as I try to control my facial expressions, somehow he can override them.

"But why did we think it was such a good idea? I take it that it was your idea," I ask him. See if he takes the blame for this.

"That part's a bit foggy. But it probably was, let's face it." Liar. You remember it as well as I do. "You don't remember much at all do you. It's sad, really. To be the only one who remembers it, I mean. If you don't remember it, it might as well not have happened," he adds sadly. That's all I needed.

"I put my ring in a slot machine," I say softly to my bowl of granola.

"What?"

"I put my ring in a slot machine in the street and won nothing. It broke the machine, I think. Someone will probably find it but I don't want it back. You laughed so hard I thought you'd passed out, but you'd just kneeled down to tie your shoelace. I told you that I thought that you were proposing to me. You were a bit drunk but happy, and you're not usually. It normally makes you sad. It was nice. And you said: "Yeah, will you marry me?" You were joking. I knew you were joking but I knelt down facing you and said: "Yeah." Then I asked you if you'd marry me and you said: "Ok." Ok. I asked you why but you never answered. You just said: "Let's do this then." Your face was almost golden because of the lights everywhere. Remember the gold coin neon lights over the casino? The lights made you look like you were gilded. I've only seen you look at me like you did then a few times, but you were beautiful, I thought my heart would burst, I... Palpitations from all the coffee, probably but… yeah. We went to get a marriage license just before they closed at midnight, and I lied about everything to get it. They wanted to go home, they didn't care. Then we were looking for Elvis and found a building that was like an LSD trip with all the lights and colours in the dark, do you remember? We just looked at it for ages. I said: "There's a bell on the sign, it must be a chapel or something." 24/7. So we went inside. It was $600, you paid $6,000. I don't know why though. No, actually, it was to speed it up because… normally it takes a while to arrange it. But they found Elvis and it was done in less than ten minutes because you told them to cut out the shit. In the ceremony, remember? No shit. But you wanted Elvis. You bought me a margarita freeze with four shots in it while we were waiting for him, but then he couldn't fit through the door. You got me another drink while he went round the back to get in through the loading bay. I couldn't tell what it was supposed to taste of but it didn't matter. I think it was called a freeze pop or a pop freeze or just a freeze. I don't know, but it was just alcohol and ice really and everything was so funny to me I couldn't stop laughing. It was so funny, L. Elvis said: 'No matter what challenges you face, you now face them together. And no matter how much you succeed, you now succeed together. The love between you joins you now as one. Uh huh huh.' Heh. No one knew who I was except you and that's all I wanted. Then it was done and it didn't hurt at all. Not like when I married Kiyomi and had two ceremonies and had to give speeches. But you know I'm very good at that. Lying. I didn't need to do that with you. Because I love you."

I felt like I was living through it again while I was talking and wasn't really paying attention to what I was saying or choosing my words carefully. I probably just talked shit in a dazed sort of way. And he doesn't respond, which is a bad sign.

He turns his face to rub the back of his neck and look at the rain bouncing off as a fine grey mist on the rooftops of all the buildings around us. The view stretches to the mountain range in the distance which looks as if it's trying to contain the city, and everything looks so unimpressive in the daytime. It looks like any other city that's just grey and waiting for night to fall, like I'm waiting for him to say something or do something.

Eventually he does turn back to me but looks down, only occasionally glancing up at me. His face is mildly reddened like he's sunburnt suddenly, which I don't quite understand because it's cloudy here. Pale people burn easily though, don't they. The steam from the rainwater rises off any surface it touches, and I wait for him to smile so I can smile back in sympathy. Empathy.

"I knew you remembered," he says before wrinkling his nose and frustratedly wiping his finger under it. His eyes are sodden with water, but it is very humid here. "Yeah, that's what happened. And you know, I would have paid 600,000," he adds before leaning towards me. "But not 601."

I smile as he does, and it doesn't feel as unnatural on my face as it usually does. It's such a small thing to be grateful for, but I am grateful. The rain bounces off the awning above us and runs off the edge in rivers to fall forty feet to the ground below. I want to remember everything.

"Ok guys, you have fresh sheets and towels, is there anything else I can get for you?" Adam shouts from the room behind me. "Not that I love being bossed around or anything but I don't mind."

"When do you finish work?" L asks him, but still looking at me.

"Erm… about an hour ago," Adam answers.

"I'd like you to take this," L says, handing him a joint we left on the table last night. Only slightly soggy. "... and this," he adds, handing him a fold of money from his wallet. "Go to a bar, find someone nice and have a really great time. Don't waste it on anything sensible."

"Wow, are you sure?" Adam asks. "I'm sorry, what's your name? There was just an initial in the hotel register."

"It doesn't matter," L says, still not taking his eyes off me. I mouth 'Larsen' to him, and he adds a smile on top of the generally dopey expression he has right now. Larsen.

Adam takes the cash and joint like he's won the lottery, but looks at me to double-check, because I'm bad cop.

"He's sure. Go," I tell him.

"Because I could just stay with you a —"

"No. Fuck off, Adam."

* * *

So, that happened. Upon reviewing my actions of late, I think that maybe I've finally lost it. I generally don't drink much or do anything interesting since I no longer need to climb a social, professional ladder. L drinks to block things out, and recently I've felt that seems like an excellent idea. With L I'm content to be a failure.

There is the feeling that I must choose soon between L and my life. Well, everything I've built my life to be. And despite my determination to just bow out in a blaze of glory, have an amicable divorce from Kiyomi, and live in a house with L, I worry that I won't. I know that I won't. I'll choose a job over him and he'll never forgive me. But I did marry him in this life where I'm no one. To prove something to him and myself, I married him. Tomorrow I'll be Prime Minister of Japan, husband of Kiyomi, father to a son and heir, and important again. That life supports my ego while L only dismantles it. I don't think I could be satisfied with only one of my choices in my life. I know myself, you see.

The room is dark apart from some LEDs shining from around the headboard. Somewhere not far away, different places are playing music. The songs fight against each other, but ultimately merge into a big mess you can probably hear for miles. I listened to it all the way through, under our own soundtrack of punctuating breaths and gasped words.

I had a shower and brushed my teeth in a panic because it was long overdue, and arranged another plane back to LA on L's card while he dozed off for an hour or so. Then I called security from L's phone to let them know that I wasn't dead or being held hostage and that I'd call them tomorrow at the airport before the flight back. They needed to bring my luggage from Disneyland to LAX. My bags are padlocked and alarmed, it's fine.

After I'd run out of things to keep me occupied, I lay flat next to L again and kept asking questions to wake him up. Otherwise I'd just drive myself mad drinking sad, flat champagne and thinking. I didn't notice that it got dark, but it must have done.

"So I suppose a good old fashioned annulment is definitely out of the question now then?" I say to the mirror on the ceiling.

"You mean in terms of non-consummation?" L asks me through the mirror. "I told you, that was never an option. How did you get an A grade in your law degree?"

"I had a headache before. I forgot we'd talked about it. And I wasn't interested in family law so I only studied what was on the module and forgot it afterwards." I delete useless information to make room for other things.

"I'm not interested in it either but this is like basic, basic stuff. Our options are either:.." he says pressing down on his first finger to put emphasis on a point, "One. A lack of consent of a parent or guardian if consent was required. So that doesn't apply to us. I think that if your father knew about it in advance, even with you being a grown man, then he'd be burying me somewhere in the desert right now. Two. A lack of understanding or insanity. Which is a possibility."

"Hey."

"Just throwing it out there. Three. Fraud or lies which induced or forced the other to marry. I'm not sure about that one. I mean you are superficially, extremely charming sometimes and it goes to my head, which ties in with the insanity plea. Let's keep it in the running. Four. If the couple is too closely related. They don't like that for obvious reasons. Although not in Japan. Japan doesn't care about that, but it doesn't apply anyway, thank fuck. Or… Five. You or your spouse was married to someone else at the time of the marriage," he finishes slowly and sounding unusually resentful about it. "Ding ding. I think we have a winner. It is already void everywhere by default because of darling Kiyomi, but we need to expunge any record of it, which would probably take a week and a showing in court. I'm not doing that. I can't sort it out here though because we're foreigners, and I don't have the clout in Nevada to bend rules. I hardly know why I'm bothering, I mean, Japan won't recognise it anyway because we're both men. Actually, don't you think that you should do something about that? In a political sense, I mean."

"I had more pressing issues and didn't give a fuck about it until now, did I? It's unnecessary," I tell him. What I don't tell him is that if I put it forward as a bill then people would talk. 'Oh, it all makes sense now, only a gay man could look that well put together.' I know because I'd think the same thing. No one can be selfless; everyone has an agenda. Either they don't care, are viciously against it, or care, but not enough to harm their reputations through it. I can do without aspersions. But I hear L sigh next to me, so I sigh as well and relent. "I'll suggest it to someone to put it forward to be shot down by the House," I say grumpily, sit up to light a cigarette and lie back again. "Wait and watch it die."

"No, Japan is progressive," L says, then reaches over to pluck my cigarette from my mouth to puff on it once and put it back. "Get your Whips on it. It'll go through."

"Do you even know what my Party's like?" I ask him, furious, but end up just exhaling because there's no point, no point. "I'll look into it." I won't. "Why do you care anyway? You said before how meaningless marriage is and how you never wanted to marry anyone, especially not a scum of the earth politician."

"Now, I didn't say that. Not exactly like that. Well, ok, I did say that, but you know I wasn't serious. I'll take you, politics and all. Obviously you couldn't have been so repugnant to me, or I wouldn't have paid six grand for a shitty wedding in a fast food joint in Las Vegas. I'm just saying that it's unfair to reserve the misery of marriage for straight bastards. I mean, straight people."

"Are you going to go all cutesy human rightsy and plan to pester me to fix everything that's unfair with the world? I get that a lot and I don't need it from you. I don't have the means to wipe out this so-called civilisation and rebuild it, unfortunately."

"You know I don't care that much. What do think I am? Nice?" he laughs. "I just don't like being told that I can't do something."

"I know. But, broken down, all this is void because I'm already married. It'd be void in Japan because we both have XY chromosomes. It's void."

"Well, it'll still have to be annulled. Paper trail. It's worthless, as you helpfully pointed out, but it still needs to be officially annulled. I'll sort it out when we get back. I can pull a few favours, it'll be fine. Forget about it."

"Or not," I say after a moment. My reflection doesn't know what the fuck I'm doing. I'm surprised he's still here.

"Hmm?" L hums.

"We could just not tell anyone," I say, turning to him as he turns to me. "Can we do that?"

"Technically we could," he says, looking very suspicious of me. "I mean, yeah you could get arrested, and so could I for having married you knowing that you were already married. But America wouldn't care enough to extradite us for something that's not their problem, and Japan wouldn't care at all. Just keeping your mouth shut and covering your tracks is always an option. It's the favorable option where the law is concerned, where half of it is knowing what to say and what not to say. But I thought you wanted it annulled?"

"It just sounds like a lot of hassle."

"Don't tell me that you actually like being married to me," he says, smiling, but then his smile vanishes and he looks back at the mirror. "No, really, don't. It's obvious that we should get it annulled."

"Don't start with that, L."

"What? I'm just saying there's all the reason in the world to annul it. If we didn't, it'd be purely sentimental as well as being a risk neither of us need. I mean, that lunacy is the sort of thing women and guys who wear nail varnish would do. It was fun and everything, but let's not see it for more than it was, which was just a piss up gone wrong."

"You know that wasn't all it was. Just stop it."

"What do you mea—"

"Stop doing that bad lawyer thing."

"What bad lawyer thing?"

"Leading the witness. You're leading me to agree with that," I snap at him, which wasn't intended and threatens the quiet, peaceable, blissfully tree hugging tone between us, so let's go back to that. "I know that annulment would be common sense and it sounds exactly like what I would have said if… well, if you hadn't just said it. Because when you say it, it sounds like the shit that it is. I don't want to think like that about this. I know what you're doing, but don't."

"You don't want to be married to me legally or otherwise," he tells me softly. "I'm trying to make you see sense."

"By being an arsehole, yes," I smile at him in the mirror, but it's a fleeting thing and I suddenly scowl instead. "Unless that's what you want. Do you want to annul it?"

He looks away for a moment and I feel my anger rise because all this is his fault. He brought us here, he was the one who was kneeling to tie his shoelace, he paid for everything, he has a lot less to lose from this and everything to gain. He bought me a fucking margarita, but he's thinking about it? Maybe I shouldn't be stupid and think about it more as well, but that's what he wants me to do. So while he gazes into the void, I'm left trying to decide whether he's appealing to my apparently 'so sensible I'm dead' nature, or because he thinks I want to annul it but won't say so out of fear of his reaction. Until he answers, I'll never know.

"L. Do _you_ want to annul it?" I ask him again so he turns his head back to my reflection and then to me directly. My muscles have turned to stone while waiting. "I won't be angry." I will. I'll kill him if he rejects me now.

"No," he tells me, and I feel my carcass relax and the corner of my mouth lift completely at its own accord, which is strange. So I look back up at our reflections.

"Good."

"But if _you_ did, I wouldn't blame you. It wouldn't take any time at all; I could fix it as soon as I get back. It doesn't mean anything anyway. It was void as soon as we got the license, don't be stupid, Light."

"Annulment would mean that it didn't happen. But it _did_ happen, and it does mean something. I like the idea of it being something only we know," I tell him before feeling particularly awkward. It doesn't make any sense for me, no. "Of course, I could change my mind about that, but, yknow..."

"Don't hurt yourself. I know what you're trying to say. Much appreciated," he says, and reaches for my hand. "No, I don't want to annul it either. I just don't know how I'm going to explain this trip to my accountant."

"Lost weekend in the middle of the week," I laugh softly while sitting up to have a few more Tylenol with flat champagne. How hedonistic of me. "But it's your money. Not like when I have to submit expenses. This lost weekend in the middle of the week has been very cheap for me. I have nothing to declare to the Expenses Committee or my accountant, so thank you."

"It was my pleasure," he replies as I replace my champagne with the dregs from the bottle I commandeered and set it back on the bedside table. "You still have a headache?"

"It's just the effect you have on me, L," I tell him. Tiredly, seductively, I'd like to think. That's what I was aiming for —to make up for the pause —and smile for effect. In this semi-darkness, I see him smile and look at me like he does really love me, maybe. I'm not sure what could convince me that he does, actually. But when I lie back down again, his eyes follow me, so I turn on my side to face him. He mirrors my action.

"When we get back, I think I'll make you a mixtape," he tells me.

"No. Thanks, but I'm ok, honestly," I say, sounding more concerned than I'd like, but it makes him laugh and pull my hand to his lips to kiss it quickly. I spent a lot of my time, especially over the last day or two, just watching him. Watching him and thinking about him. I'm on free time until the plane lands in Japan, and I can spend it however the fuck I want, as far as I'm concerned. If I spend my time thinking about him then I'm not hurting anyone but myself. In the long run I'm only killing myself slowly but beautifully by thinking of him. "That song you played before… The Judge liked it, didn't he?" I ask him. "The one about Russia?"

"How did you know that?" he asks, really quite open-eyed with shock. "Well, it's an old, good song, so probability would dictate that he'd have lik—

"I knew because you knew so much about it," I explain.

"Oh. Crouching stupid, hidden clever boy," he nods to himself. Yeah, I found another fault line. I'd say I'm not stupid at all but recent events attest otherwise. "He listened to it a lot when I was growing up, so I did too. He was like you, he didn't like music really. I read books about the recording of it. I mentally ripped it into tiny pieces and spread them out like I could understand him if I could just... crack it. But it's just a song. No hidden messages. Not to me, anyway. A Bond song as well, I mean, it's not deep and meaningful. But I felt closer to him when I heard it. I just wanted to understand him. I _still_ want to understand him. Why did he give me his name instead of to Deneuve or Eraldo? There must have been a reason mustn't there? I asked him once but he wouldn't answer me. Judges don't need to answer questions. Why do you think he gave me his name?" Fuck, don't get sad about your dead dick of a father again, I'm sorry I mentioned it.

"I don't know, L."

"But you're like him," he tells me angrily, shocking both of us, I think. But he instantly reverts back to quiet thoughtfulness and looks back at the ceiling. "Sorry. In some ways you're like him. I thought songs people like might say a lot about them, especially when they don't like many songs."

"Like how I like Titanium?" I ask to change the subject at my own expense. "I'm sure The Judge would have loved Titanium."

"He would have liked _you_. More than he liked me anyway."

"Then he must have been an idiot," I tell him, but he just seems conflicted between defending someone dead and agreeing with me.

"I don't know about that. He was The Judge after all. He never made a mistake."

"L, he was divorced three times. He made mistakes."

"That's different. Each wife served their purpose. He was never wrong about people in the dock. He was a human lie detector without anyone having to say a word. He could just see through to the souls of everyone he met, and I never knew how he did it. He was amazing," he sighs. Well, I doubt his father was supernatural, but L has obviously put him on that pedestal. He's not going to get off it any time soon. "Anyway, you _don't_ like Titanium, do you," he smiles at me suddenly. Yes, let's forget the ever-present ghost in the room.

"No, I hate it more than words can describe, but officially I love it. It's inspirational. The fact that it's noisy as fuck is neither here nor there. The Party needed a new theme song for some reason and some drunk intern decided that song fit. Young PM with a lot of promise and promises, apparently… yes." I'm not filtering what I say very well at the moment so it'd be a good idea to shut up. My reflection thinks I've fucked up.

"Do you like any songs?" L asks. I think it's strange how we've taken the same sides of the bed we always take without thinking about it. When did we decide which side of the bed was whose?

"Like is too strong a word but there's one I don't mind."

"So?"

" _The Man Who Sold The World_. I think that's what it's called."

"Bowie? Nice. You like the lyrics?"

"I don't listen to lyrics. I don't pay much attention." I like it because it sounds like death watch beetles. "But no, I don't like many songs. I just know the ones you like because you like them. Like they're parts of you in a way. When I hear them I think of you. That's why I like them." Shit. "That's sad, isn't it?" I ask apologetically.

"Yes. I'm a goner and so are you, Light Yagami."

"Yeah. I think I am," I whisper, and kiss his hand like he kissed mine. He stares at me for a moment before he kisses me. There's something innocently earnest about it that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and my skin there shivers. It's like when he whispers against my neck, and it's notable only because I never have that feeling any other time apart from with him. It feels like a tiny electric shock that sparks through me.

"How about…" he starts, shifting closer to me, "And this is only if your headache doesn't rule it out. But how about we totally smash this consummation thing again so we definitely remember doing it this time?"

Oh. Again? I should be grateful, shouldn't I, I should be grateful. He doesn't seem to notice my lack of enthusiasm, because I sit up to knock back the last of the flat champagne and stub out my cigarette before I smile back at him. If anything gives him even one quarter of what he's given me just by existing, then that's fine. I'm a good actor. Sometimes I think I'll just lie there and watch him. To be like a corpse in not participating at all. Because that's not the point of it for me. There is no point of it for me unless I can see it happen on his face.

"Ok."

* * *

I don't know how I lived without a mirror on the ceiling.

The next day we got another chartered flight back to LA and then let my security know I was in the VIP room of LAX. I think they really hate me for going AWOL so often. Apparently, they were quite close to admitting that they'd lost me this time, so I bought wine at the airport for them, some Studio Ghibli shit for Kira, and a perfume for Kiyomi. They're not to know I didn't buy them at Disneyland. They're not to know that they're an afterthought. They're not to know that I only did it to make life easier for myself. No more complications on top of the ones I already have.

For nearly twelve hours I felt myself getting more and more depressed. Depressed is the only way I can think of to describe it. I knew that once we landed, L would go his way and I'd go mine. I'd be cushioned in bubble wrap in an armoured car to be deposited at the Kantei and signed for by Kiyomi. I don't know if L noticed that I was quiet and moody on the plane. He gave me a ring he'd picked up to replace the one I left in a slot machine in Las Vegas just out of sheer frustration with my life. The ring I had from marrying Kiyomi symbolised what I thought I wanted then, and I wanted to get rid of it. Now I have a ring from L, and he was right. All gold wedding rings look the same.

After my guards left me in the VIP room so they could secure my path to the car, L told me that he should go. I neither agreed or disagreed, but before he left, I stood to bow to him.

"Goodbye, Mr. Yagami," I told him. I own him now and it's for keeps.

It made him smile and bow to me in return before he picked up his bag, leaving me slowly, like he didn't really want to. He took a few steps backwards to the door.

"Goodbye, Mr. Lawliet," he said.

Yes.


End file.
